Soooo... now that everyone who wants to do so has presumably seen the first episode - I thought it was good. It's interesting to have seen the process, to have known what could have been in every episode and was not - what was cut, left behind and changed; interesting to have watched lines I loved in Lucy's script and how they came out. Some things I thought were funny in reading were not as funny onscreen, and vice versa. I love Cherie Lunghi in this, I think she's got it spot-on.

And naturally, the horse fellow. he's a client I remember particularly well, so it amused me no end to see that scene on telly.

Of course, the palindrome line is a sticker. Always has been. I didn't grumble about this much more than anything else I grumbled about (there's a mention of fanny in an upcoming episode that clunks like a broken exhaust manifold, but I must sigh and leave the delivery in Iddo Goldberg's no doubt - mmm - capable hands), but not knowing palindrome? N was on that one in meetings like a dog at a bone. I know what a palindrome is (Able was I, ere I saw Elba, though one does rather doubt he delivered it in English). More to the point, so does the screen Belle, since as an avid reader - comes up in another episode - how could she not? But ah well. It suited the scene, and c'est télévision.

I'm curious about the reviewers who read the character's request to try again with a client that didn't work out as 'falling in love.' That's... well, if that's the case, then I must admit defeat, I really do not understand the interior workings of every other female in existence, and can see why I am considered an aberration. But falling in love? That's what 'normal' women do after having unsuccessful sex once with a stranger? Really?

No wonder relationships are so fucked up.

Thoughts, musings, and goings-on of Belle de Office:

Rosie Boycott should give me a cut of her action for all the hay she's making off the show. 40% after expenses is the standard in my industry. Submit via my agent, pleasure doing business &c.

Secretly wore push-up bra to quarterly review meeting with supervisor. Am wondering whether blogging this constitutes an unrealistic representation of working life.

While I am ordinarily loath to burst anyone's bubble, it must be said that my boss is a bald Irishman with prominent incisors. Alas, it's not all chalk-stripe City boys like in the movies. You boss might not be someone you'd choose in real life, but it's part and parcel of the job to work for them - regardless of appearance.

Planned Friday coffee break conversation starter: 'So, did anyone else wank to thoughts of Billie Piper last night, or was it just me?'

Feeling v guilty about my privileged position, as it's well known that 1 in 5 desk workers are not happy-go-lucky ladies of the day like myself but underpaid temps forced into the industry in order to pay off student debts. Decide to forget it and bunk off for a champagne lunch instead.

Unfortunately youth - or at least the impression of youth - is paramount in this line of work. Am thinking of knocking three years off the time since my degree.

Yes, it's a jet-set lifestyle. I get to travel between the break room and my desk, am feted by secretaries constantly demanding my autograph, and am paid almost a third of a living wage every year. But no one tells you about the unglamourous bits - like having to hand-wash your M&S jumpers and laying them flat to dry, for instance.

Just discovered blog of anonymous lady accountant - hot stuff! Now that's easy money... would do it in a heartbeat if I had no conscience.

And of course,

Appalled that Parkinson does not factually represent the experiences of those with said disease. Doesn't he know the sort of message that sends to impressionable young women? And could this somehow be related to the rise in eating disorders? Discuss.

I am frequently asked what advice I would give someone who wants to become a successful prostitute. My response can usually be summed up in one word: don't. It's suitable for some, but chances are, you can't handle it. However, people never believe me. So rather than go over the boring caveats time and again in email, I've decided to lay out the general idea - with a little posthumous help from the Notorious B.I.G.

The Ten Call Girl Commandments

Rule nombre uno: never let no one know / How much dough you hold

No one knows the truth but my accountant. Everyone else gets generalities and hints, but it is never, never, never worth dishing your income details. Those who make less will use it against you; so will those who make more. This is particularly true if you happen to be dating someone who knows you're a working girl. Just lie to him about your income, okay? Just lie.

Number two: never let em know your next move / Dont you know bad boys move in silence or violence

Whether it's deciding to let a client go, change agencies or quit the game altogether, don't talk about it, just get on with it. Waffle about moving on too long and you'll look like someone who is all bark and no bite (and attract the ire of your agency manager, if you have one). Let your actions speak for you.

Number three: never trust no-bo-dy

Or as Prince Humperdinck put it, 'I always think everything could be a trap, that is why I'm still alive.'

Biggie goes on a bit about your Moms nicking your crack and lighting up. Can't say it was a problem for me as such, but the bigger message is that loose lips sink ships. My father has a favourite saying - two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Don't want the world and its dog to know what you do for a living? Then don't tell nobody, fool.

Number four: know you heard this before / Never get high on your own supply

Controversial. Some people insist that they enjoy work sex in the same way as the unpaid variety, but like Biggie I beg to differ. Work sex is performance art, with emphasis on 'performance' (and also 'art,' but only if you consider Penthouse Forum 'literature'). Orgasms are for boyfriends.

Number five: never sell no crack where you rest at

Again, some would disagree, and these are the ladies who are happy to entertain you in their 'central London flats.' I on the other hand am not down with the idea of anyone coming to visit my home. I am a fan of the outcall system, not least because if worst comes to worst you will be on someone's CCTV somewhere. If you don't fancy sitting in taxis and negotiating hotel reception, find an agreeable brothel or pay timeshare on a flat with other girls you know. But don't take that shit home. You want your neighbours to know you're a prostitute? Might as well stick a neon sign above your door, because sooner or later, they'll figure it out.

Number six: that God damn credit, dead it / You think a crackhead payin you back, shit forget it

...or to put it another way - no money, no honey. Cash up front. Always. Every time. Everywhere. No exceptions.

Seven: this rule is so underrated / Keep your family and business completely separated

Wow, I like this man! Shame he died before he could write the next self-help bestseller. Again, I so totally agree. Interviewers always ask whether my family ever found out - the answer is no. I want my parents to know their eldest daughter accepted money for sex... err, why exactly?

Number eight: never keep no weight on you / Them cats that squeeze your guns can hold jobs too

At some point you may need heavies. Oh I've forked over a pink once or twice to someone for sitting outside a hotel room for an hour 'just in case.' But you have to listen to your instincts and trust your judgment. And a word about your agency? Trust them, but not too much. Never give them your real name. Be aware of anyone about to make trouble for the girls - maybe another call girl burning her bridges on the way out, maybe the manager. Never let your reliance on outside help be a substitute for knowing when to cut your ties.

Number nine shoulda been number one to me / If you aint gettin bags stay the fuck from police (uh-huh)

Unfortunately, I did occasionally have the pleasure of the company of the Met's finest. But they never became regulars, and not for lack of desire on their part. I would also counsel staying well clear of politicans and celebrities, if it possibly can be avoided.

Number ten: a strong word called consignment / Strictly for live men, not for freshmen

The phrase 'call girl,' in case you'd wondered, means you're on call. Available. When the phone rings, you're already prepapring yourself to say yes. So, keep this in mind: one date does not a regular make. Not even two at 9 pm on consecutive Wednesdays. If someone wants the right to reserve your time, he has to prove himself trustworthy. You don't want a late cancellation to mean you can't pay the rent that month.

Oh, I hate this rubbish. I should be regaling you with tales of my (currently non-existent) sex life, or updating regular readers about the horror hilarity that was my holiday at home. But no, I feel compelled to post this open letter to Radio 4. Not to worry, I've also sent it to them. But if you are of a delicate constiution and can't bear to read yet another entry about the show, please do us all a favour and stop reading now.

Still here? Okay, you asked for it...

Dear Sir,

There are, I’ve learned, three kinds of objectionable review: lies, damn lies, and hellfire damn lies. Of which I would class last night’s review of Secret Diary of a Call Girl to be the third sort.

Imagine my surprise, tootling along with a friend, when we turn on the car radio to hear that I am a victim of abuse and that I wrote about falling in love with a client while working as a call girl.

It was rather a shock for the gent driving the car, as your reviewer Bidisha identified that very man as having subjected me to criminal abuse during our previous relationship.

Now, I completely understand the sources of Bidisha’s errors. For the legions of piss-poor cultural critics who are too busy selling their intellectually bankrupt opinions to all takers (real prostitution if ever anything were worthy of the name), it must be tempting when faced with an opportunity as big as appearing on Radio 4 to pass comment on the content of something one clearly has not read. We live in hectic times, after all; actually reading books – even relatively short, episodic ones such as mine – must be an unbearable imposition on a mind raised on the likes of i-D and Dazed+Confused.

So, for the record, I never fell in love with a client, and my first boyfriend did not abuse me.

Granted, there’s been a bit of slap and tickle – or piss and whipping, to be strictly accurate – in my past. And every second of it was both consensual and carried out between adults.

Anyone incapable of grasping the difference between consensual and desired sex and actual violence ought to have her sex organs confiscated until she grows the fuck up. Dressing as a nurse does not confer patient-tending ability. Buying trainers does not make you Paula Radcliffe. And wielding a crop in the bedroom for the titillation of all parties involved absolutely does not equal abuse. In fact, we are talking a man who once allowed me to whip his balls with a leather belt. Hardly the actions of a criminal abuser.

Why the lengthy defence? I feel it’s important to make the point clear. The fetish community does much to promote safe, sane sexual play. Some ham-fisted journalette rapidly approaching her ‘yoof culcha’ sell-by date just has no idea about the ways and means of human sexuality.

On that note, the matter of affection for clients: I have never dated a client. I have never fallen for one. I have never desired anything more than a professional relationship with the men who paid me for sex. Yes, I did try to treat them nicely – they are, as Bidisha probably ought to be told, human beings who not only deserved understanding and respect, but gave it to me. Occasionally I did meet in my work the sort of person I would date – but I did not date them. There’s a word for someone who falls for the men who keep her life comfortable, and that word is ‘mistress.’ Perhaps Bidisha has misread the title of my books and misunderstood the premise of the television series? I was not a mistress. I was a whore.

I’m stunned this has happened. To lie about the content of my books in an effort to sound in the loop is one thing. To libellously accuse my ex-boyfriend of a crime is something else. I can take criticism; I’ve been doing it since day one of the blog. Some people like me, great. Even more people don’t, and that’s fine too. Being universally adored is not my life’s goal. So tear apart the writing, whatever – it’s fair game. But lie about the lives of other people, under the assumption that because they are anonymous they could not possibly hit back, well, that shit is beyond the pale.

As regular listeners of Front Row both I and my friend were appalled by the malicious untruths broadcast about us. I’m no commissioning editor, but I would advise caution in future when soliciting the opinion of someone who clearly struggles to turn paperback pages and absorb the plainly stated information thereupon. I will continue to be a listener and remain,

Most sincerely yours,

Belle de Jour

Sorry, chaps (and chapesses) - shameless plug time!

Tonight I have a white-hot date. It's not a sexy new man (oh, I wish). Come 10pm, I will be perched in front of my computer for a special early screening of Secret Diary episode 1.

It's like getting to watch an ultra-glossy home video of your life, without the embarrassment factor of actually seeing yourself on screen. And of course, the chance to see Billie in her knickers. A lot.

Enjoy!

Eligible Bachelor #4...

...works one floor down from me at work

...is freaking adorable

...as well as being excruciatingly fuckable, is also whip-smart

...asked me out for weekday drinks

...turned up drunk and swiftly proceeded to get even more smashed on my tab

...so I made my excuses circa half ten. We haven't spoken since.

Analysis:

Boyfriend material? 2/10 - I earn a reasonable salary, but not quite enough to support two lushes. Sorry, babes, but I gots to have a man who buys me G&Ts, not the other way round.

Fuckable? pick 'em - Would most likely pass out sometime before the bedroom. Apart from that, great! Or is it? This is someone so petrified of interaction with me that he lubes himself up with liquor in order to have a conversation, and not even a conversation that involved negotiating the use of sterile instruments, a drop sheet, and a police baton. So 9/10 for straight-up one-time sex; 3/10 for anything kinky. And I bet he considers going down to be kinky.

Client material? 6/10 - The sweetly earnest sort who would request GFE, insist on a lot of awkward conversation first, down half a bottle of white, and fall asleep while you were blowing him. If he sobered up enough before you left to feel bad about this, would tip well.

Would date again? 4/10 - Would be a 7/10 if he dropped by my desk and asked for a second try - but as yet an acknowledgment or apology is not forthcoming.

Final comments? - His desk is between my office and the ladies loo. Am just holding it in for now.

Facebook is the awesome. I'm friends with Brian Blessed?!? Should drop him a note and mention I used to share a house with his younger, grumpier doppelganger back in my student days. Then again, I have no idea if it's the real Brian Blessed.

Then again, he has no idea if it's the real me.

All things considered it wouldn't surprise me overmuch to learn it actually is the aforementioned housemate, masquerading as the actor he so closely resembles. In which case, hello Mike, and no, I will not pay you back for the milk you said I nicked. It was out of date and I poured it down the sink, okay?

Sheesh. Some people.

I would rather be pissed on than give a blowjob.

There, I've said it. Whew.

Why? Well, I'm fundamentally lazy, and it's easy to do. You don't have to do much, just sort of be there and remember to not breathe through your nose. Also, it's not remotely as bad as everyone thinks it is. It's sort of like eating (sorry, Mum) shellfish - if you dwell on the mechanics of what it is you're doing, you might be momentarily sickened, but as long as you don't, everything's tickety-boo.

Also, you can brush your teeth and have a hot shower straight after, and no one will think you unromantic for doing so. (If, on the other hand, you do want to do the couply thing, be certain to wash the worst of it off before inviting him into the shower. Trust me on this.)

Honestly, I feel I shouldn't be telling you this. Now everyone will want to be weed on!

But seriously, it's not bad at all. Try it. You might not like it, but let's be honest, you might like it about as much, or even slightly more, than giving a lockjaw-inducing blowjob. And it buys you mega points to cash in later on the perversion of your choice, be that pony play, rope bondage, or a meal at Royal Hospital Road. Everyone's a winner!

In other news, Blogger now thinks I'm German. Weird.

Shock, horror!

Television show about a working girl likely to offend... because it uses the C-word.

What dat, I wonder? Cradle? Cataract? Caffeinated?

Oh, right... cunt. Someone alert the media! Wait, someone already has.

CUNTcuntCUNTcuntCUNTcuntCUNTcuntCUNTcuntCUNT

(As it happens, at university A1 and I decided that 'cunt' had lost its power to offend - largely because we used it so often and with so little regard for context. So it was necessary to come up with a word that could be deployed when one really wanted the object of the insult to take offence. A nuclear option, if you will.*

That word, friends, was 'cooze.' And I defy you to come up with an insult that makes the skin crawl quite like that one does.)

* They're just words. No need to get your knickers in a twist. If words offend people so much, I struggle to imagine what they must think of the real insults in this world. Widespread poverty even in the world's wealthiest economies, inequality based on nothing so much as background or sex, and that fact that in this day and age there are still places where women have their hands cut off for wearing nail polish come to mind. But no, someone is going to say CUNT. On a minor television channel late at night. Whilst playing a call girl. Imagine that.

Sigh. So, it's started already. Someone's accused the upcoming TV series of glamourising prostitution, all without, of course actually having seen the show. And if you care to place a bet on whether the people concerned read the books it's based on either... well, I know what my royalty payments are, so let us just say I wouldn't put my money on yes.

Also, having actually seen the scripts of the show, I can tell you it's not all shits and giggles for Billie's Belle, like it wasn't all shits and giggles for me. But on the other hand I think the people who choose this life then make hay out of being a 'reformed' broken woman or whatever - you know the ones, their memoirs are slotted between 'No Daddy Stop' and 'A Child Called It' in the book aisle at Tesco - they're as guilty, if not more so, of promoting a reductive stereotype.

I could write a book on this issue alone - but what would be the point, people would make their minds up before even reading it. So, I will just distill my reactions to this usual nonsense in bullet points:

• Unless you have been a sex worker, or know one intimately, you have No. Fucking. Clue.
  
• Begone until clue is obtained. Thankyouverymuch.
  

Wow, it's all so simple when laid out that way. I think I will produce all future arguments in bullet point form.

I don't know if any of you read the blogs I link, but you should. They contain a number of sex workers, ex-sex workers, and people who have intimate knowledge of sex work through other means (friends, lovers, and so on). And, um, Jessica Cutler. Anyway. Two recent entries in particular have really struck me as being both wonderfully written and truthful.

The first is by Mistress Matisse, a professional dominatrix and ex-escort. Click this link and scroll down to the entry on 04 September, where she notes:

I say that last sentence with an ironic twist to my lips that isn’t quite a smile. The idea that all sex workers live in minute-to-minute peril is a myth propagated by a society that doesn’t want women getting any dangerous ideas about what they are allowed to do with their bodies. In the well-over-ten years I've been in the sex industry, I can count on one hand the number of times I've felt like I was in real danger from a client. And none of those times ended with an actual assault. Was that fate, luck, divine intervention, my skillful handling of the situation, or was the danger just my imagination? I don't know. I will never know. I just know it hasn't happened.

Amen to that. For the most part, the sex workers at greatest risk of attack are streetwalkers. (Just to recap, and FYI, not all prostitution is streetwalking. See, like, MY ENTIRE ARCHIVE for details.) As it happens, a substantial number of streetwalkers are also dealing with issues related to poverty and addiction. Is the problem the exchange of sex for money, or is it the drug use? I'm guessing the drugs (or whatever more deep-seated reason is driving the addiction). Why? Because my experience has been similar to Matisse's. I'm fortunate. I know I'm fortunate. But then again, I was never an addict, and went into the business with eyes wide open and more than a few routes of escape if needed. I believe each of us has a hand in our own luck and my working life was no exception.

On the other side of the equation, there is Geek Slut (whose blog rocks my fucking face off). His experience of sex work is as customer/friend/whatever. He's seen the people who are using sex to fund a drug habit, and he knows the life well:

I got a soft spot for these fuckers. I mean, I preferred fucking them when they using. More agreeable. In other words, fast fucks with no strings, no connections and no worries. But, that made me part of the problem.

Took me a while to get that: part. of. the. problem.

I was enabling them. And convincing myself I was doing no harm. Fuck yeah, I felt bad. And a few I tried to help. But how’d I help? By fucking their ass and then buying them dinner? By giving them money and conning myself they’d use it for rent (LOL)? By beating up the “boyfriend” who sold them on Manhunt? By giving them a place to crash (and fuck)? Then when it came crashing down (it always did), I’d shake my head and call the next one. Patting myself on the back for “trying”. LOL This blog is filled with this shit.

That, folks, is real. Self-satisfied liberal pseudo-journalists who sit around in their tax-deductible home offices writing about a life they never have and never will experience, using as 'research' canned soundbites from po-faced academics who also have no direct experience of the lives they imagine they are saving through master's theses that a grand total of four hand-wringingly earnest people read, that is not real.

So if, say, Geek Slut wrote to me and said, hey B, I think what you did was wrong, and harms people, and should never be legal, and I think you and people like you glamourise it - well, I probably wouldn't stop doing what I do, but I would take his opinion on board, because I respect the shit out of that man and because he knows what he's talking about. See the difference? One group has stereotypes and assumptions and makes its living off promoting the victim culture. The other has life experience and just gets the fuck on with it. I realise the line between the two may seem subtle to some, but from where I'm standing, elephants could tap dance on it.

People can write whatever they want about me, assume whatever they will, say whatever they like. But I know which side I'm on.

I knew it had to start sometime. The drunk-dialling, that is.

Not me sillies - though goodness knows I've a few reasons to hit the sherry of late. No, it's the ex. He rang last night an hour after I went to bed (not at 9pm, but thank you for the concern), and stupidly I answered. This is the problem of having a phone with an annoying ring you're too lazy to change, you're obliged to pick up.

Anyway. I won't bore you with the details, because let's face it, every drunk dial that does not result in a booty call is more-or-less the same. The accepted stages are

1) nervous introduction, followed swiftly by

2) I'm really enjoying life on my own, which leads inevitably to

3) I miss you, I'm lonely (subtext: I wasn't successful at picking up other girls tonight), usually swiftly chased by

4) I love you so why aren't we together, then usually a spot of

5) here are all the ways in which you are a bitch, then

6) another proclamation of undying love, and finally

7) the caller either urges you to phone back tomorrow, invite him over tonight, or passes out.

The odd thing was, listening to him ramble on and on about this thing we'd done together, or that cherished memory, or yet another way in which I Ruined His Life, it all seemed very unreal, as if it had happened to someone else. It was not unlike watching a film, or seeing one of those terrifically enjoyable reality shows in which you scream at the TV week after week for her to dump the motherfucker already. His voice was like the voice of someone I knew a long time ago, and all the things he said, they had no power. They were just words.

It was a feeling, I suppose, not unlike how it must be to read one of my books and not be me. And that's why I didn't just hang up. I was so amazed by my reaction that I had to stay on the phone and see how long it lasted. If it lasted. It did.

Ten signs your sex kitten powers may be on the wane:

10. Shoes that were previously in high rotation as office wear are now consigned to the 'fancy dress parties' area of the wardrobe.

9. Your night cream has become your day cream, your day cream is now your hand cream, and you're slathering something suspiciously like nappy rash cream on your face before bed.

8. The phone rings at ten past ten on a weekday and the conversation starts, 'Sorry, did I wake you?'

7. That 22-year-old isn't flirting. He is actually just being nice.

6. You know the difference between bio and non-bio, and even hand wash your scanties. Not that many people see them these days, but just in case...

5. Your sexual fantasies involve a Miliband (or two).

4. If they print one more article about utilising wind power to run the wifi in your reclaimed teak yurt, you're going to have to kill... wait, no, that was 10 signs you need to start reading another paper. Sorry.

3. The last man who offered you his phone number was fitting your shoes at the time.

2. You've neatly solved the do-I-or-don't-I problem of getting those capillaries lasered by being too short-sighted to see them anymore.

And last but most certainly not least,

1. You're out of lube, and can't even remember when it must have been used up.

Morning commute arithmetic...

Bus caught in traffic
+
Go-Go's on the iPod
+
Tristram Shandy
=
Rock'n'roll!

Every breakup needs breakup music, right? But it's not so easy as that. You can't go out and look for a breakup theme. It has to happen organically - be a song that's currently popular, or else something that enters your life by accident, not design. Also, it has to speak to you on a fundamentally aesthetic level. No dedicated Kylie fan will find herself sobbing over Bela Lugosi's Dead in the weeks after the love of her life has walked out the door, nor should she.

Well, g*d bless the spirits that dwell within my iPod, because today the Shuffle function happened upon the best possible song right when I needed it. I was grumbling and angry about a phone call at 7 this morning from my ex nattering on about whatever the hell he imagines is wrong with his life/his relationships/me (who rings before breakfast, except to annoy? Who I ask you? No one, that's who). As a result I desperately needed something a little bit uplifting, a little bit fuck-you, a little bit sistas-doin-it-4-themselves, though perhaps on a scale from nought to I Will Survive something that measures only about a 0.8 I Will Survive.

Enter Pulp, and Bad Cover Version. Here's the fecking awesome video.

Best. Thing. Ever. Thank you, iPod, for getting me through the morning.

'Jewish? Really? That's fantastic, because Larry David is my hero.' No. You don't say? 'I love that show. It's like he's writing about my life...'

Sigh. Readers, meet Eligible Bachelor #3.

Chaps, keep your pound coin - this clue is free. You don't open with the Larry David comparison. You just don't. Especially if you're a 20-something fellow with a BMW, all his hair, and a wardrobe stuffed with designer labels and expensive shoes and you're as English as the day is long.

Why not? Because unless you bear an an actual physical resemblance to Mr David, I'm now going to spend the entirety of the date trying to figure out precisely what you meant by that comment.

'Blah blah then I did this... then I moved here...' 'Then there was the time I went to...'

Aah, it's finally hit me. You're like Larry David not because of any shared heritage, not because of an as-yet-undetectable sense of humour, but because you're self-obsessed to the point of absurdity. Sorry, there's room for only one monstrous ego in a relationship, and I'm not prepared to give that up for just anyone.

So right after coming home I Googled around and learned Larry David also drives a BMW. German car? Yougottabekiddingme. Maybe this guy has more in common with Larry than I initially credited him, and not in a good way.

Analysis:

Boyfriend material? 1/10 - I'm certain Larry David's a wonderful guy. No offence, but I wouldn't date him, nor anyone who claims to be like him. (Also: German car? Sorry to dwell, but it gives me gooseflesh.)

Fuckable? 5/10 - Fit enough, no question, though I would be tempted to gag him first. If he was cool with the gag, 7/10.

Client material? 9/10 - Strong marks here for being wealthy, on time, and more likely to talk about himself for a full hour than ask me potentially awkward personal questions. Misses the top ranking for being the sort who probably doesn't tip.

Would date again? 2/10 - Maybe with a little cultural re-education, my mother would like him as a toyboy. But not for me.